Beautiful Storm (13 page)

Seven Months Later

“H
EY, BUD. HOW’S
it going?” Bear shouts in my ear as his large hand slaps my shoulder.

The music is loud as fuck and the atmosphere is buzzing. The usual for a Friday night in Khan’s. I glance around me at the vast array of scantily clad women and fix him with a wolfish grin. “Never better, mate. You?”

It’s a bold-faced lie. My life is a fucked-up mess since I walked away from Lizzie. Bear knows it too. He’s picked me out of the gutter more times than I even fucking remember. I see, rather than hear him, laugh as his eyes wander the surrounding area.

“Same, man. Same,” he replies with his gaze fixed on some bird’s arse.

He turns his attention back my way and observes me with his expert stare. His shoulders drop a little and the humour leaves his face. I know I’ve failed to convince him.

Catching the eye of the barmaid, I gesture for another two beers. It wasn’t difficult, as she’s been eyeing me since I arrived. She places them down in front of us and I hand her the cash. She blatantly pouts when I don’t bother to engage her further.

I smirk into my pint as a leggy brunette, who’s gyrating to the shit being played by the DJ, catches my attention. My interest evaporates the instant a muscular bloke snakes his arm in a possessive manner around her waist, a clear sign of ownership. Having learnt my fucking lesson, I refuse to get involved with any woman who’s obviously taken. I won’t wreck someone’s relationship for ten or fifteen minutes of riding my cock. That’s my one redeeming quality, I suppose.

Propped with my back against the bar, I glance over at Bear. He’s already got his hands on a pretty blonde, who looks tiny against his huge frame. He’s a massive bloke, he’s also one nasty bastard when rubbed the wrong way. I should know, we’ve had each other’s backs for years.

Bear nudges my shoulder, and I glare at him. He knows I hate being pushed, yet he does it anyway. The urge to pummel my fist into my best friend’s face is fierce and irrational. His knowing green eyes stare at me in amusement as he indicates with his head towards the blonde waiting on him a few feet behind.

The anger dissipates as I raise an eyebrow at him. It’s got to be a record. He’s only been here for ten minutes at most. He discreetly taps his watch and mouths ‘twenty minutes’ at me. I shake my head in disbelief and grin at him, then give him a quick nod, and I turn my attention to the dance floor and admire the show.

The female species amaze me. As open and upfront as I am about my intentions, they always think they’ll be the one to change me. Make me see what I’m missing out on. But I’ve been there, and done that. The only thing I’m missing out on is Lizzie. That fucking woman was my everything. The ones trying to suck my cock, who would let me take them in any way I’d like? They’re void fillers, and never anything more.

Every night when I leave the club, without fail, I can bury myself deep in a willing pussy if I want. My favourite time killers are few and far between. The ones who would let me take them against the wall in the back alley. They aren’t stupid and wouldn’t expect flowers or romance. All they want is an intense orgasm whilst being fucked hard, and that’s it. Which is fucking good, because that’s all I’ll be capable of. My heart? I don’t fucking have one. What I do have is the world’s worst case of fucking blue balls. I need to get laid.

Lost in appreciation of the view before me and my thoughts, I jump when a hand curls its way up my chest. Looking down, I follow it back along its arm to the fuckable body, and attractive face attached to it. Blue eyes stare back at me.

“Hi. I’m Ella.” She smiles a seductive smile, and flutters her eyelashes in the way that lets me know, without a shadow of doubt, her intentions. Maybe she’s the remedy?

“Nice name.” I don’t give a fuck what her name is, but I force my trademark ‘I’m up for anything if you are’ smile on my face. Her hands roam my torso and it feels good. Not like the touch of Lizzie but…

Fuck.

Why can’t I get her out of my head?

“I’m Noah,” I add, tilting my head to the side and smirking wider.

“I know.” She looks up at me through her lashes. “Do you want to dance with me?”

Pain grips my chest and I’m suffocating in my own skin. Seven fucking months she’s been gone. Every day is like a waking nightmare. I’m submerged in revolving days of agony and alcohol, now accompanied by the old need to bury myself in random women. I can’t keep going like this. I glance down at the hand again and imagine a different one. And as fucked-up as it is in this moment, I need to move on.

“Sure, love.”

She grabs my hand and leads me straight past the dance floor and outside, into the back alley.

It’s not long before her legs are wrapped around my waist. She’s a woman on my level, and knows what she wants. And I can give her what she expects. My reputation precedes me; it’s why she’s here. Fair-sized tits display themselves when I tug down her dress to free them. I cup one in my right hand. It’s soft, but her skin touching my fingers has no effect on my desire. My jeans are unbuttoned just enough to release my cock, but I’m only half ready to ram home.

The dim street light of the alley glows enough to make its presence as she stares back at me, playfully biting her lower lip. “You feel huge,” she compliments, as she reaches down between us to stroke my cock. She kisses my neck, her teeth nibbling and sucking my flesh while she moans against my skin. What are supposed to be her teasing sounds do fuck all for me, and I release her legs and back her into the wall.

“I want you to suck me.” I reach for her head, guiding her down. All too eager to please me, she squats down and claws at my jeans.

I’ve got to give it to her. Those shoes look like they have four-inch heels. The fact that she’s barely wobbling is impressive. “Steady, I’m not going anywhere.” I chuckle as I rake my fingers through her wavy hair.

She’s a woman on a mission. She frees my cock with ease, momentarily blowing on it, and slides it across her warm lips. My hard-on is only half-mast, but all it needs is a few good pulls from her hungry mouth and I can be balls-deep in her pussy. She sucks on my head before pulling my cock into her greedy mouth, her slick, damp lips sliding halfway down the length of me. Fiercely, she bobs her head, taking me to the back of her throat, and gags before her lips get anywhere near my balls.

I think that will deter her determination, but she lets go, pops her head up, eye-fucking the shit out of me as shiny spit runs down her chin before dipping back down and wrapping her full lips around the tip. The scene before me should be making me hard as a rock, and in desperation I ram myself into her mouth, willing the bastard to get its fucking shit together.

Closing my eyes, I let my mind wander to places it shouldn’t be. Places I’m trying to forget, not relive in Technicolour. Blood rushes to where I need it and I harden fully in the warm mouth and firm grip surrounding my cock. Relief sweeps through me that he decided to play ball, even if he had to fake it.

“That’s it, keep going,” I coax, but her labour is pointless. The second I open my eyes and look down at the foreign view, shame at dirtying something beautiful spikes in my chest, and my interest instantly fades. My free hand clenches into a fist and I pound the brick wall in front of me. This is fucking embarrassing. “Stop,” I mumble, my voice hoarse.

My fingers disengage from her hair and she pulls back, a look of disappointment taking over her face. “What the fuck, Noah?”

Yeah, that’s my cue to leave. I’ve never gotten a look of pity and I don’t want one now.

I rub a hand down my face, bend and wrap an arm around her waist and bring her to stand. Before she can question my lack of endurance again, I shake my head and lean in, setting my forehead against hers. “I’m sorry. It’s not gonna happen, love. At least not tonight.” Looking for any excuse but the real one for my lack of enthusiasm, I state, “Must’ve had too many beers.”

Pulling back, I tuck myself away. Shit, even my cock’s depressed. What she does next is the last thing I expect her to.

Adjusting her clothes, she flashes a sly smile, and demands, “You
will
make it up to me next weekend. I’ll bring a friend.”

That I can do. Buttoning up my fly, I glance up to look at her but she’s already gone.

Grinning like a Cheshire cat at the woman’s balls, I walk back towards the club. After a few steps the familiar pang of guilt hits me. My pace falters and the grin slips from my face. The tightening in my gut increases and waves of disloyalty drown me. Forcing my legs forward, I push the rear doors open. I need a drink.

Bear’s already leaning up against the bar when I saunter back in. He looks at me and gives a shake of his head as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. I shrug my shoulders at him in a ‘whatever’ gesture, trying to push the feelings inside me away.

“How do you do it, Noah?”

“Don’t know what you mean, mate. I didn’t do anything. I was just minding my own business.” And I give him my best innocent face.

“Yeah. Exactly. What chance do the rest of us mere mortals stand when you’re around?” His lips lift into a wry smile.

“Fuck off. You pulled tonight with me standing right next to you.”

“I’ve been working on Christy for the last two weeks. You pulled, got laid, and returned within the space of fifteen minutes.” His face changes to a broad grin. “You’re a dog.” He can think whatever the fuck he wants, it’s not like I’m going to admit to limp dick.

“You’re just jealous,” I quip.

“True story, mate. True story.” Bear laughs, and then takes a swig of his pint.

We walk over to a free table, further away from the blaring speakers.

“Anyway, how’re things at work?” I’m keen to change the subject from my lack of morals. And I’m interested as well. In Bear’s line of work he deals with the rich, famous, and criminal. Like me, it hasn’t taken long for him to build a reputation for his specialised abilities. Plus, he employs some of the lads from our old squadron. They’re some of the best in world. He’s in private security, runs his own business, named ‘Pegasus.’

Sitting down, he answers my question. “Same shit, different day really. I’ve got a pretentious, spoiled, and very irritating actress who won’t do a thing she’s bloody well told. And a fucking footballer who thinks the world revolves around him because he’s paid millions to kick a bag of air around a football pitch.”

He slams his drink on the table and leans in as his voice rises. “Both of them pull every trick in the book to jeopardise their own safety. Then they think
I’m
the dick for telling them in no uncertain terms it’s me who holds the cards, not them. They don’t get that when someone has made a very real threat against them, they actually might be in fucking danger and that’s why we’re there. You can imagine how that goes down with the lads. Same old, same old.”

His rant makes me laugh, because I can imagine the talking down these ‘famous’ people have had. Bear and the lads take safety very seriously. Anyone who jeopardises it will be taken down a peg or two. I would’ve loved to have seen their faces.

He spins his drink in between his palms and sighs. “Baz and Dean are on ops abroad, they haven’t checked in for two days.” Concern flickers through his eyes and my insides tense a little; that pair are fucking good. My hand unconsciously lifts my glass to my lips, a silent prayer for our buddies.

Besides babysitting people old enough to know better, this is the other darker side of ‘Pegasus.’ Our previous occupation combined with his present one. He runs operations for some pretty scary bastards and a classified government section we worked for called ‘The Underdogs.’ Deniable because we’re rogue, and paid accordingly. If caught, it’s tough shit. If we’re lucky, our bodies end up being identified by fingerprints and the tattoos we all have. But sometimes that’s not enough. My hand runs over my abdominals, and my skin burns under the ink.

Since leaving The Underdogs, I’ve run a few jobs for Bear and helped him out when he’s asked. We trust each other, years of friendship that can’t be broken by having nails ripped from your fingers or a gun at your temple kind of loyalty. Our trust is binding. Plus it pays well, and I don’t really have to work. But I haven’t done a job since… her.

“Enough of that shit. How’re things with you?”

He wants to change the subject and I can’t blame him, forty-eight hour silence isn’t good by any standards. But I don’t want to talk about my fucked-up life, either.

“Another pint?” My head indicates towards his empty glass and he nods in reply.